No light without shadow
by Elenielwen
Summary: Meet Aëcheron, Noldorin ranger, who committed a grave sin in the eyes of the Valar. As he is judged in the halls of Mandos, he is presented with a chance to repent, and finally find peace. Long have the Valar wanted the Elven King of Mirkwood to return to Valinor. Tasked with this, Aëcheron sets out to "retrieve" the king. Yet this proves ... complicated. SLASH! ;D


**A/N Okay people, my first fanfic ever! (ooh don't be too harsh please :D ) I do know quite a bit about Tolkien's middle earth, the elves, the 'factions', the language etc. Yet there are so many things I may have gotten wrong due to lack of sleep (been up for 2 days in a row) and due to.. well.. memory failure, mixing stuff up :P I have a very ridiculously bad memory ^_^ So forgive me if that is the case and please point it out along with any other critique/praise you may have. Oh, did I tell you English is not my native language? Well you have been warned ;D I try to stay faithful to Tolkien's lore but.. yeah.. the memory again :(**

*****A disclaimer***: I DO NOT own ANY of Tolkien's work, places, people etc, I only play in the sandbox! I DO however, own Aëcheron (:3) ;D**

****Warnings: SLASH M/M ;D Minor 'disturbing' references. Maybe... a **_light_** lime? ****8D**

**** Pairing; Eventual Tranduil/OC**

**** Setting; Post-war of the ring**

**** Rating: May vary (I will warn if rating change), but mostly T**

* * *

**No light without shadow**

**Ch 1**

The blade made a sickening noise as it was pulled out of the flesh it had previously been plunged into. The deer's skin was darkened, and a sickening stench came out of the now no longer bleeding wound. Its eyes were glazed over, the only part left that looked pure and filled with despair, rather than evil. Maybe the animal was resting in peace, no longer tainted, no longer forced to suffer. Maybe it was somewhere else, reborn already, its new fate not so very different from its previous life.

A lone figure stood bent over the carcass, bloody dagger in hand, face cloaked by a mane of dark hair spilling across a dark mantle in a tousled manner.

Noiselessly the figure looked up towards the sky, the sun causing the long flowing locks of hair to glisten.

The skies were tinged orange after the previous night's storm. Small clouds shaped like long floating banners, slowly moved across the skies, ever moving in their own pace. The morning was quiet, no birds singing and the breeze was ever so discreetly making its way across the landscape, carrying the smell of death.

The figure swiftly dried the dagger in the the grass' morning dew. With another swift motion, the figure put the dagger back into its sheathe. A ray of sun shone on the figure's features as another breeze made its way across the grassland, causing the long hair to move away from the face.

It was an elf.

Slightly pointed ears, and fair features were revealed in the morning sun. High cheekbones followed by slim, yet full lips. What was unusual with this elf was that the eyes were a dark blue, almost as dark as murk water along with long dark hair. His skin was pale, furthering to his 'dark aura'. Most humans assumed the elf was either a half breed or mistook the elf for a human since his hair and eyes were so unusually dark. Most people imagined elves to have light hair, fair skin and blue eyes.

The humans had, after all, prospered under the rule of king Elessar and his fair wife, queen Arwen, but elves had been rarely seen, if all, since a century back.

* * *

There were not many left in Middle Earth.

After the war of the ring, more elves left for Valinor, seeking refuge from a world that had moved on, no longer in need of its old inhabitants. The elves knew they did not belong in Middle Earth, they belonged to the great land beyond the seas. More had fallen into melancholy or died from dimishing, as the last of the elves had been starting to depart for the grey havens. As the elves presence diminished, so did the forests. The Ents faded into stories, soon to become myth and the trees of Lórien and Mirkwood was withering, the forests beginnig to be filled with an unnatural stillness. The humans expanded their lands, building farmlands outside great halls in wood and stone, but as they prospered, the elves faded slowly into history.

Even if Arwen was of elf kin, people soon forgot that fact as she started to show signs of age along with the king.

As it were, children were born in a world where logic ruled and their mothers told them elves were just a fairy tale.

However, there was one story born in the white city of Gondor as king Elessar started wither as much as the forests of old did.

The story told of a lone ranger, cloaked in a rugged looking dark mantle, his or her face hidden in shadows.

The last ranger left in Middle earth or so the rumor went. A lone figure no one could say how he or she looked, traveling the free lands of Middle Earth, exterminating what evil was left.

No one knew who the ranger was or his or her purpose, but many wives told their husbands to be vary in the evenings and many mothers told their young to never talk to strangersl Every time the ranger made an appearance, be close to Rohan, Gondor or any other human city, rumors spread like wildfire.

As it were this particular day, the ranger had been sighted just outside Gondor's gates the evening before.

There had been a terrible storm, everyone had been inside, hiding from its terrible rage. The winds had raged upon the white city, the rain whipping the structures like a master its slave.

Despite the rain pouring down and the wind blowing with an unforgiving power, the ranger had been sighted outside the gate's of the city by a stray guard.

The rumour spread like wildfire shortly afterwards, until the city was practically buzzing.

* * *

Though it was no mere ranger.

It was an Noldorin elf. Noldor elves had since long back returned to their forefathers, the sins committed by the house of Fëanor too great a burden to bear. Kin-slayers the Noldorin had been brandished, and as they were split from within, waging war upon their own kin, this particular elf had committed one of the greatest sins known by the Valar.

* * *

The ranger closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his cold pale skin, allowing the peaceful morning to seep into his pores. Always in such peacefulness came the memories, sneaking up on him much like a snake sneaked up on its prey. He was powerless against them as they crashed upon his mental walls, a force obliterating everything in its path. He quickly drowned in images...

* * *

Aëcheron had been more or less been captured by Sindar elves, the fair folk of Valinor still holding a deep grudge against all of the Noldor. As he had been brought to the halls of Mandos, judge of souls with not so kind treatment, yet he decided to bear with his situation with pride. Despite what predjustices were held against his people, the Noldor was a proud race of elves, still holding on to morale and honor. Fierce they loved, wrathfully they hated. He did not want to let the Valar see any emotion on his face betraying his chaos of feelings within.

Aëcheron held his head high, eyes burning with defiance and open curiousity. He strode gracefully through the halls, his features a beauty to rival that of the Valar themselves. He could feel eyes upon him and almost hear the word "kinslayer" being spoken out loud. Aëcheron did not need to hear them say the word, their eyes were saying it loudly to him.

The Noldorin elf let himself be escorted by a pair of Sindar elves in gleaming mithril armor, adorned with intricate patterns of trees and other various flora. The guards weapons looked just as surreal or exotic, depending on how he thought of it. He noticed the elves moved with very fluid, calculated movements, their hands never far from their weapons.

He was escorted to a throne of beautifully carved stone, once more, mithril and silver pattern swirled all over the throne. It looked like ethereal trees were branded into the stone. Aëcheron held his posture, looking around with an air about him like that of a king. Proud, yet unyielding, he cast his eyes downwards, long lashes hiding his dark eyes as it was proper to do so. He did not wish to anger the being in front of him. He knew Mandos more or less held his immortal soul in his hands. To unnecessarily anger a being that powerful was most unwise, and so Aëcheron let his body stay perfectly still.

"Bow before Mandos, judge of souls, Aëcheron of the Noldorin, descendant of Fëanor" A melodious voice next to the throne spoke in the lilting language of Quenya, spoken by the oldest of elves.

The guards left him, he could hear their light footsteps leave his side to stand beside Mandos.

Aëcheron gracefully tilted his head, imitating an almost-bow, eyes remaining open. His hair fell forward, draping him in what seemed like a mane of silky locks pooling towards his knees. He knew he must look rugged, having no time to change into more appropriate clothing. He wore dark leather with the old patterns symbolising the crown of the Silmarillion, the ancient armor worn by most of the Noldor's warriors of all kinds. Seeing how he had just returned from a hunt when the Sindar showed up, his mantle was slightly dirty, and his hair in disarray, one braid coming loose on the left side. The leather boots had left a faint trail of dirt on the beautiful floor.

His bow was still strapped on his back along with a quiver in the same dark fashion. His bow had been with his since ages ago. He had not been willing to part with it, even as the Sindar asked him to surrender all his weapons. He had let himself part with his twin daggers and hunter's knife, but refused to give up his bow. Strangely, the Sindar had agreed and let him keep his bow.

"Hail Mandos, judge of souls" He replied with a melodious tone of voice, causing the elves' eyes to tell him volumes of their train of thought.

It was no secret they still remembered Fëanor and his sins committed, and the oath he had taken. Even Aëcheron could admit he would not like to have been of Fëanors blood. He had often heard when he was a young ellon, that the madness ran in his blood, in the very blood that pumped in his veins. Whether that was true or not, only time could tell.

* * *

The elf sitting upon the throne seemed as created from light and life itself. Long white, almost silver hair spilled over the elf's shoulders and onto the floor. A crown made of mithril and silver spun together in a complicated pattern going in and out of a series of intricate braids. Mandos' robes were of the same fashion, a luminous white color, mithril and silver patterns adorning the seemingly ethereal fabric neatly hiding the elf's long slender throat.

But it was the eyes that rose Aëcheron's curiosity.

They said the eyes mirrored the soul and Mandos' eyes seemed to radiate ancient knowledge, an ethereal light shining where there should have been eyes. He had no iris, no eyes, only a bright flashing light which gave Aëcheron a strong sense of endless sorrow, timeless knowledge and ageless wisdom as he gazed at them beneath his long lashes. He could not read them, which was unusual and caused an unfamiliar tingle to go down his spine. It was not a pleasant feeling.

Aëcheron eyed his surroundings.

The great halls of Mandos was a beauty beyond comparison. It was almost a bit surreal, the light almost blinding as both its inhabitants and the surroundings seemed made of light and beauty. Silver met mithrillian patterns, nature met stone.. all in perfect harmony.

Yet Aëcheron sensed the description "frightfully beautiful" would fit the place better than anything else. Aëcheron had seen much beauty in his life, but nothing was more beautiful to him than a pure heart and that... he had not seen in centuries, eons even. Everything else was just... superficial and artificial beauty . He could not deny how it pulled at his elven soul, the ancient and very much tired soul longing for peace. Yet Aëcheron knew.. he would find no peace beyond the veil. He was an immortal elf, destined to walk the planet until madness, a broken heart or battle took him. But even then, he knew the sin he had committed would be judged by Mandos, therefore his soul would find no rest in the afterlife.

No.

Aëcheron was not fated for peace.


End file.
